


outlines

by gossamernotes



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamernotes/pseuds/gossamernotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been months since D.C. and Pierce and "I knew him," and Steve finds himself back in New York after realizing that he's no closer to finding Bucky than he was after being fished out of the Potomac. </p><p>Sam is concerned. Tony is a <em>complete</em> idiot. And Bucky, well. </p><p>It was only a matter of time until he found what he was looking for. </p><p>[The story wherein two brooklyn boys who never really left the war recover each other and rediscover themselves.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pineapple Pizza and Pulled Strings

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfiction ever and I will do my best not to ramble up here but just read this and let me know what you think and here we go!

Sam Wilson grew up in house where his daddy prayed and his mama scrounged around the kitchen every Sunday night to make a home-cooked meal that left his stomach bloated and a smile on his face. 

(His family had stayed local in the Bronx as his father preached at an inner-city church down the street during times when riots replaced block parties and being black was a sure sign to get spat on in certain parts of the city. His daddy never let that bother him, walking to work with a sack lunch in one hand and a Bible in his back pocket. Their money was always tight -- even after his mama got a job at the Red Cross -- but their Sunday dinner was a weekly tradition that all of them made time for.)

Sam had been missing those dinners lately, and how is how he finds himself hunched over his stove on a Sunday a few months after Steve had been released from the hospital with stern warnings about “not over-doing it” and “you need rest” and “don’t make me send you back to the ICU because I _will_ if you so much as _think_ of leaving Sam’s side” -- and Sam remembers shivering at that threat because Natasha’s bedside manner scared the hell out of him. 

But Steve? He just nodded and waved a hand to brush her off like he had bigger things to worry about, which really, he did.

Risking a look over his shoulder, Sam sees Steve sitting on the couch with his broad shoulders hunched over and curling into himself. Once they had returned to Sam’s place weeks ago, Steve had settled himself on the old threadbare couch with soft thud. He never moves far from the couch when they are at home, and even now, the coffee table is still littered with papers pulled from the file Natasha had given Steve. Judging by the low gasps and tense line of Steve's neck, Sam can't help but wish that his friend had taken Natasha's advice and not pulled on that string. 

Those thoughts end, however, as soon as Sam looks down to the stove below him and drops his shoulders. 

“Damn, _what the hell_ ,” he mutters as he prods some oven mitts off his hands to grab the nearest fork. Steve, Sam knows, eats more than most men and has got to be starving now that it's so late in the day. Despite their time spent searching for Bucky over the past months, Sam still somehow had some unspoiled food around his kitchen and thought he might make a dinner to make even his mama proud. 

But the charred mess crusted inside of the dish he pulled from over makes Sam’s stomach turn, and after stabbing the fork into the hellish mess he made, Sam bites out a short laugh. 

“Figures, man. I didn’t sign up for this. I ain't made out for this. I'm barely beyond an easybake oven or something,” he mutters before moving the dish over the trashcan and scraping the food into it. 

Steve is quiet through all of this -- either too polite to mention the burnt smell or too distracted by reading new files about the Winter Soldier. And Sam admires Steve's persistence -- really, he does -- but he's also been steeling himself during the past weeks for the fallout that might come if Steve can't help Bucky. Or worse if Bucky doesn't want any of their help after being seventy years of programming and just wants to be left alone.

But Steve is a stubborn man and knows Bucky like he is the air he breathes. With a bleeding heart and calloused hands, Steve Rogers is going to fight to the very end to bring Bucky back from wherever he is -- trapped in his head after the fall, after Zola, after memory wipes, after the hellicarrier, after _everything_ \-- because that is just the kind of man Steve is.

Walking closer to the couch with his phone in hand, fully prepared to order takeout because his culinary skills were _not_ going to cut it in this friendship, Sam grips the back of the couch to peer over Steve’s shoulders. “Hey, man, just wanted to remind you that I never said I could cook. Never said I was a pilot either; maybe I need to be clearer in what I say, but I am giving up and ordering some pizza. You want anything special?”

Steve stills at the closeness of Sam’s voice but relaxes momentarily. With a short shake of his head, he responds.

“I don't care, Sam. Just get whatever.” Sam lets out a short breath, having half-expected the answer as soon as he had asked the question, but his patience has worn thin with Steve’s distracted answers. 

Shoving his phone in his pocket, Sam walks around the couch and squeezes between Steve and the armrest before fixing his friend with a look that might even make Natasha proud -- and Sam will make sure to test it out on her when she gets back from _freaking_ Siberia with her new covers. Steve ignores Sam as he brushes a finger over another worn file pulled from Bucky’s folder that's written in cyrillic and would make no sense to either of them if Natasha hadn’t written them translations. 

“Steve, you gotta’ stop for a minute and take care of yourself. This isn’t healthy.”

Sam feels Steve’s back stiffen before taking in a deep breath, but Sam keeps quiet. His years at the VA have taught him how to encourage conversation, but most importantly, it has taught him when to _shut the hell up_ and let another person talk. 

Steve lets out a low hum before leaning back into the couch. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t do anything too healthy these days. You’ve seen what comes along in my line of work.”

“Man, that’s _bullshit_. You lap me every time when we go for a run -- and while I am hacking a lung out in Ms. Lee’s lawn -- you just trot on by with a dumb smile on your face. I swear, I can hear you in my dreams, you know. “On your left,” here and, “On your left,” there.”

Steve smiles, which makes Sam’s chest lighten because it's been too long since he's seen Steve do that, but then Steve’s jaw is clenching shut. 

“You know that’s not what I am talking about, Sam.”

Sam shrugs. “Well, then why don’t you tell me what you are talking about.”

Looking Sam in the eyes, Steve brings a hand to his hair and worries with it as he sweeps it from his face. “Sam, I just...I don’t even know. I'm not stupid despite what you or Fury or even _Stark_ may think. I see that this isn’t healthy for me, but we're talking about Bucky here. He _needs_ my help, and this file is just a series of lab notes and case reports and doesn’t give me a damn clue as to where Bucky might be.”

Sam keeps quiet for a moment before reaching his hand out to the coffee table, shuffling his fingers through some of the loose papers. “We talked to Tony, remember? They got facial recognition of Bucky at your exhibit in the Smithsonian. We know that he’s alive, and bonus points, because he's not blown anything up either. He's just trying to work things out for himself.”

“I _know_. I know that. But I need to be there, Sam. It’s been seventy years, and I can’t let this go. Not in the way that you all seem to want me to.” 

“Who said we want you to let this go?” Steve starts but Sam moves his hand to wave off whatever Steve was going to say. “No, no, _listen_. We don't want you to drop this, Steve. _Hell_ , I volunteered my services. But it has been months since we started roadtripping across the country to abandoned Hydra bases, and we aren’t a step closer to finding Bucky than we were after he pulled your ass out of the Potomac that day-” 

“Exactly! We’ve got _nothing_ , and I am tired of sitting here and getting nowhere!” 

Sam’s lips presses into a thin line at Steve’s outburst. 

“Steve, you ever thought that doing nothing might be the only thing -- maybe even the _best_ thing -- for you to do right now?” 

Closing his eyes, Steve nods. “It might have crossed my mind in Indiana after that grenade blast, but I figured it was my concussion speaking.” 

Sam snorts, pushing lightly against Steve’s shoulder with his own. 

“Well, it _might_ have been the concussion, but it's a good thought. Apparently Agent Hill think so too because been too because she's been leaving enough voicemails for me to take the hint." Steve raises an eyebrow, and Sam ignores it. "Let’s look at what we know. Bucky is on his own and trying to figure out who in the _hell_ he was before...all this shit. He’s looking for something, Steve. And, if you'd just sit still long enough and let him, he might just find what he is looking for in you.” 

“Okay, but-” 

“No, Steve, you need to think about this. Bucky visited your exhibit five different times, and let me assure you it is not because you are riveting figure of patriotism who inspires people to walk through that exhibit over and over again. I mean, that _voiceover_? That thing drove me crazy after about ten minutes.” 

Steve laughs, and for the second time that night, Sam feels his chest loosen at his friend’s easy face. “It’s not my fault. I had nothing to do with that exhibit.” 

“Maybe not, but that exhibit has everything to do with you. And that is why Bucky kept going. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes that for himself and starts looking for you. You gotta’ let what happens next be on his terms, Steve. It’s isn’t going to work any other way." 

“I know,” Steve admits after a moment of silence, his eyes focusing on the papers in front of him. “You’re right. It’s just hard. I guess what I don’t know is what to do with myself now." 

Sam’s heart clenches at Steve’s word as they break from his friend's lips in a way that should _never, ever_ be associated with Steve Rogers because it’s just _wrong_. So he brings his hand to Steve’s knee with a light pat and squeezes gently, grounding his friend and reminding him that he is _still_ on his left. 

“How about New York?” Steve jerks as if he’d been hit, and Sam scrambles for words before Steve can veto the thought. “I mean, Brooklyn, right? I know it is weird for you to be back with how everything has changed, but you know that is where Bucky will wind up. And, if you ask me -- which you _should_ because I've been right about a lot of things tonight -- I think New York could do you some good. You need to get away from here,” Sam finishes, gesturing towards his window that faces a city which has grown distant from the both of them over the past months. 

Steve keeps quiet, and Sam’s stomach begins to turn because he really didn’t mean to say the wrong thing. His fingers twitch against the rough denim of his jeans until Steve leans forward and starts putting away papers into Bucky's file without a word. 

“Okay.” 

Blinking, Sam looks over at his friend to see a Steve’s shadowed eyes and stubble and feels ridiculously proud of Steve for this decision. 

“ _Okay?_ As in we’re heading to New York?” Steve nods tightly, and Sam smiles.

(This, he thinks, is a _big_ step. Because Steve and New York -- while there is a lot of good there -- is also a volatile combination that Sam doesn't even know how to unravel. The past few months have been hell for Steve, but this choice? It's the first that Steve has made since standing next to Fury's grave with a set mission to find his friend, and well, it hasn't worked out so well. And this decision is also the first one of the many harder to come should Bucky want help Steve's help-- hopefully devoid of his previous despotic and homicidal ways -- but those are decisions Sam can think about later once he's got food in his stomach and a beer in his hand.)

Steve stands up suddenly, talking fast like he's afraid he doesn't have enough time to say everything he wants. 

“...call Stark in the morning and see if we can’t get a flight. He’s a bit _much_ , but he has apartments for the team in that ugly tower of his, and I don't want to hear him go on and on about how rude it would be to turn them down if I booked a hotel,” Steve rambles as he picks up his thick file and heads towards the hallway which leads to his room. Sam blanks and shoots up off the couch, a hand reaching into his pocket because suddenly his stomach mutinous and demanding pizza _right now_ after that conversation. 

“Hey,” he calls out, and Steve turns on his heel. “Go take a shower, man, and try not to think so hard that your brain explodes. You might not be stupid, but you are prone to overheating, so cool off some. I'm going to order pizza -- don’t worry, none of that Hawaiian shit -- and we’re going to eat and drink and watch the Dodgers play later even if you’re _still_ bitter about them or whatever. Alright?” 

Steve smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling despite his young face -- and Sam has to stop for a moment because his friend is younger than he is but is really actually ninety-six and that makes his head hurt -- but the look makes Sam feel like he has done something good tonight for Steve, and that is _enough_. 

“Whatever you say, Sam,” Steve calls over his shoulder and disappears down the hallway. Sam goes through his phone, looking through his contacts to find the number for a little pizza joint down the block that _never_ charges him for extra pepperoni. Dialing the number, he brings the phone to his ear and hums to himself before settling onto the couch. 

Tonight, Sam might not have made a home-cooked meal for his friend or done much of _anything_ except let Steve talk off some steam, but he feels lighter than he has in months. The tight feeling in his chest and bones eases as he tilts his head against the back of the couch, doing his best not to think about the future and what may or may not come of it. 

The phone ring as he waits to make an order, and Sam closes his eyes, shaking his head in tired disbelief with a hand running over his eyes. 

“What the _hell_ , man. What the actual hell?” 


	2. Fighting Irish and Flash Drives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Second chapter!  
> Would love it if I could get some comments and see if you all like this.  
> Without further ado, the story!

When Steve was born, he didn’t cry. 

The doctors fussed and cleared his airways and pressed persistently on his weak chest -- and when his mom got to this part of the story, she would turn her head and pretend that the smoky air outside of their beat-up apartment was making her tear up -- before labeling him a lost cause. 

_His lungs weren’t strong. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. We’re sorry, ma’m, but you should prepare your goodbyes._

But Steve made it through those humid summer nights as his lungs rattled in his chest, and his mom would hold him to her breast and hum soft songs to entertain them. He kept making it through those nights as months turned into years, and those years brought Steve treasures like coloring pencils, day-old birthday tarts from the baker down on Demonbreun who took a liking to Steve, and eventually James Buchanan Barnes. 

Sometimes, Steve wondered how he lived nearly eight years of his life without having Bucky by his side, but those thoughts were always dashed as soon as they came because Bucky would be there with a wide smile and knowing eyes and they were off down the street on another great big adventure. 

But today, as he looks out of the wall-to-wall windows that frames his absurdly nice apartment in the Avenger’s Tower, Steve finds himself heading down those old thoughts again. And, suddenly, eight years seems like nothing compared to the seventy keeping the two of them apart. 

Steve pulls away from the window slowly because even if New York is louder and dirtier and crazier than it had been when he was a kid from Brooklyn, it is still _home_. However, with Sam at the local VA office turning in transfer papers and Tony stuck elbow deep in a new suit schematic even after blowing all of his older models up after the Mandarin, Steve has nothing to do and no one to see. 

It is this downtime, to be honest, that was making him antsy. He has been going nonstop since 1943 when he met Erskine in that dingy recruitment office until a week ago when Sam and he lit up their last Hydra lead in Albuquerque. S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone -- allegedly, at least, but Steve is starting to learn better than to believe everything Fury promises him -- and there are no missions.

_(you’re my mission)_

The weather is nice outside, and if Steve stays holed up in his room for much longer, he is afraid that he might set off Bruce when he tries to let out some pent-up frustration in the 4th floor gym. So, Steve moves from the center of his room towards his dresser and strips. All of his injuries he collected over the past few months bashing in Hydra skulls are all healed, but he lets his fingers trail gently over his stomach where a soviet slug had pushed its way through him on the hellicarrier. 

_(who the hell is bucky?)_

There is hardly even a scar -- just a white patch of regrown skin that puckered at the edges -- but the serum would heal that as time went on. Steve let his fingers drop as he worked his pants off and slipped into his workout gear and tugging on his jogging shoes that felt even softer than his bed because what the _hell_ is memory foam and why is it in his _shoes_?

Stuffing his phone and wallet into his pockets, Steve makes his way to the elevator before getting inside.

“Hello, Captain Rogers. Where are you headed this afternoon?” Steve no longer jumps when J.A.R.V.I.S. speaks, but he does smile at the AI’s dulcet tone. How someone has frantic and kinetic as Stark created something like J.A.R.V.I.S. boggles his mind in more than one way, but it’s mostly because the two are so different. 

Rolling his shoulders, Steve rocks on his feet. “Just going for a run.”

“Very well, Sir. Would you like me to have a car waiting to take you to the park?”

Steve shakes his head _no_ before stopping, thinking that J.A.R.V.I.S. can’t see what he’s doing and opens his mouth to tell the AI that that won’t be necessary, but apparently there are cameras in the elevators -- which, really, Steve should have expected -- and J.A.R.V.I.S. continues.

“Captain Rogers, please remember that Mr. Stark has planned a dinner tonight to welcome Mr. Wilson and you back to New York. Please do not be late. I am afraid that Mr. Stark’s mood only grows as his temper does.”

Steve laughs. “Did Stark plan this get-together, or was it really Pepper,” Steve asks when he really knows the answer. If J.A.R.V.I.S. was programmed with a sense of humor, Steve swears he can hear the humored lilt in the AI’s voice when he responds. 

“I am afraid that information is classified, Captain Rogers, but you do know how fond Pepper is of you. Have a nice afternoon.”

The elevator doors open, and Steve steps out -- careful not to bump Stark’s latest frazzeled intern who is juggling _at least_ 3 cups of coffee and 2 tablets and a manilla folder the size of Stark’s ego -- and heads out of the lobby’s private exit. Stepping out into the warmed air makes Steve take a deep breath, and even after seventy-some-odd years, it is reassuring for him to know that New York still smells the same. 

Steve can remember being a little kid back in Brooklyn, sniffling away in the chilly autumn air and spoiling for a fight when he heard a couple of rowdy dockmen insulting the Irish because his mom’s Irish and _nobody_ gets to talk about his mom like that when Bucky appeared out of nowhere and hooked an arm around Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve bristled, shoving out from under Bucky’s arm. “Stop it!”

Bucky had laughed and led them down the street -- past the drinking men -- and towards the mainstreet where vendors were getting ready to close their shops and pack their goods. Steve had frowned, wondering why Bucky was bringing them out here, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask Bucky a thing before he is pushed into a bench. Bucky runs a hand through his hair, bushing the tangled wisps out of his eyes, before telling Steve to sit down and shut up and _please_ don’t get into a fight in the three seconds I am gone. 

So Steve did as he is told for once, closing his eyes and rubbing at his nose until he heard the steady thud of Bucky’s feet running at him. He opened his eyes -- even though the smell wafting towards him spoiled the surprise -- to find Bucky with two hot dogs in hand. 

Steve blanked. “Bucky, how did you get the-”

“Not this time, punk. Don’t gotta’ explain myself this time, you hear? I didn’t have anything for you on your birthday, remember? Call it a present,” Bucky grinned as he practically shoved the food into Steve’s hand before taking a bite out of his own food. Steve could only stare at the hot dog before throwing a soft punch at Bucky’s shoulder once his friend sat down to eat with him.

“Jerk.”

As Steve heads towards the park, firmly reminding himself that it is 2014 and not 1934, he smiles whenever he passes a street vendor selling hot dogs. Life, he finds, is more colorful these days than they were before the war -- and it wasn’t just because the serum corrected his eyesight and hearing and lungs and basically every inch of his once scrawny body. 

People were louder -- laughing, crying, talking, singing, anything at all. They wore what they wanted and did as they pleased, and while some might think that Steve hates this self-entitlement, he really can’t bring himself to mind. Because, once upon a time, Steve would have loved to have been as free as people today are to be themselves -- and he now has the chance to make up for lost time. 

Steve thinks about making up for lost time more than he cares to count. He thinks about it was Peggy when he visits her, praying that her memory will hold out just a few minutes longer than it did during his last visit, and he thinks back to when he wanted to give her his mom’s old wedding band. He thinks about it when he finds Tony drinking at 3 AM -- convinced no one else is awake -- and curses Howard like the devil. He thinks about it when he sees himself in the mirror and can’t pretend he doesn’t see the tense line of his shoulders or the curve of his furrowed brow. 

But, now, he mostly thinks about it because of Bucky. 

_(I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.)_

Steve thinks about lost time as he runs around the park -- not even realizing that he finally made it to the shady groves of Central Park until his feet are thumping against pavement and his chest is expanding to drink in the air around him. 

He runs until he loses track of time, until his legs wobble traitorously beneath him, until his hair’s slick with sweat, and until he remembers what J.A.R.V.I.S. had said earlier. Trotting to a stop, Steve leans over and breathes deeply while fishing his phone from his pocket and seeing that it’s nearly time for that dinner and stands straight. He texts Sam to call a car for him -- because he might be a super solider with the best cardiovascular system this side of Asgard -- but even he can’t run back to the Tower and get ready that quickly. So Steve heads back to the park’s entrance and waits about five minutes until Happy comes and picks him up.

The rest of his night falls into routine -- something that Steve is all too familiar with because the military is nothing without routine -- as he strips, showers, dresses, and heads down to the main kitchen where he finds Sam, Tony, Pepper, Bruce, and (surprisingly enough) Clint waiting for him. 

Tony was in the middle of rambling when he catches Steve entering the room and stops, thrusting both of his hands out to his side. 

“And there he is! The guest of patriotic honor! It’s good to see you, Cap, now that you look like an actual human being. Happy’s going to be cleaning that car before I get in it again -- J.A.R.V.I.S. make note of that, okay? -- but we’re glad you finally figured out how to work the shower and dine with us. I am starving, and Pepper made...something...and I am sure it is delicious,” Tony spits, and while the rapid fire words might have once made Steve roll his eyes, he is starting to enjoy Tony’s giant mouth, _especially_ when he sticks his own foot in it. 

Pepper glances at Tony with a tight smile. “ _Something?_ Is that what you call my frittatas now?” Tony laughs even though his fingers twitch nervously at his side before wrapping an arm around Pepper’s waist to kiss her on the cheek. 

“Never dreamed of it, Pepper. Erm, Ms. Potts. Ugh, I forgot what I am supposed to call you by when you get cross with me,” Tony admits and Pepper _does_ roll her eyes. 

“Just follow me,” she says, and Tony follows her wordlessly. Bruce and Sam follow them to grab plates, and Steve watches as Bruce laughs when Sam gestures wildly while telling some story, and he is glad that his friends are getting along. 

Steve hears a pair of light footsteps trail behind him until they stop close by.

“Thanks for making me unemployed.” Steve jerks at Clint’s voice and looks down to see a shit-eating grin on the shorter man’s face -- and for a moment -- the smile looks so much like the one Bucky would throw around that it takes his breath away. Clint must notice something is wrong with Steve because he laughs nervously. “Alright, Rogers. Take it easy; I was just joking. I’m not going to stick an arrow up your ass, you know? Rather glad that Hydra got kicked where it counts, and if S.H.I.E.L.D. had to go for that to happen, I get it.”

Choking on a laugh, Steve nods his head. “Good to know, Barton. That might have made things awkward between us in the future.” And Clint laughs before taking a step forward, clearly waiting for Steve to follow him step-for-step into the kitchen, muttering the whole time about how his worldview of Captain America is ruined now because who’d have thought Steve would be such a little shit. 

Steve smiles. 

Clint’s steps falter for a moment, and if it wasn’t for Steve’s sharp eyes, he might not have noticed. But he did, and after debating for a moment, Steve figures he might as well ask. 

“Is there something we need to talk about?” Steve sees Clint’s face tenses -- and this is pretty much how he expected Clint to answer -- because the two of them are friends, yes, but something was _off_ with how Clint approached him tonight. Judging by the look on his face, Steve braces himself for a conversation that he might not want to listen to. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clint swears as he drags a hand across his face, and for the first time, Steve notices the dark circle and stubble decorating Clint’s face and feels something gnawing at his stomach. Apparently, the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. had really done a number on Clint. Who could blame him? First Loki, then Coulson, and now this? 

Steve keeps quiet and stops walking, knowing it is best for them to have this conversation away from the others. Clint clenches and unclenches his jaw, as if he is chewing words in his mouth, before his lips crack open. 

“Shit, Rogers, if you tell anyone -- and I mean, _anyone_ \-- about what I am about to tell you, I will honest to god shove an arrow up your ass. I will do it, alright? No empty threats. I am warning you now.” Steve fights off the urge to laugh because Clint looks completely serious and manages a nod that tells Clint to continue. After a breath, Clint reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a thumb drive that looks too much like the one that reintroduced Steve to Zola back at Camp Leigh months ago, and Clint must notice Steve’s guarded expression. 

“Don’t worry, there are no fucked-up German nazi scientists in this, alright? It’s from me...and, well, Natasha. Again, remember, _arrow_ up the _ass_ if this conversation is breathed beyond us, but I came out of deep cover in Rwanda when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell to find Natasha will blonde hair and grudge match against Hydra like you won’t believe. She’s...Well, we’ve been trying to keep tabs on their movement. Taking down operatives and questioning spies -- the whole thing.”

Steve blinks. “That’s good.”

Clint rolls his eyes and gestures at the thumb drive that Steve’s now holding. 

“C’mon, Steve. That’s not the point. The thing is that Natasha and I ran into someone about a week back.” Steve’s eyes widen as he suddenly starts putting pieces together, but he can’t seem to get any words out. 

Clint continues. “Natasha didn’t want to tell you. She gets it more than either of us do -- I mean, Loki might have made my mind swiss cheese, but that was child’s play compared to the Red Room -- but I had to tell you. Shit, if someone knew something about Coulson and didn’t tell-” 

Steve winces when Clint trails off, knowing _exactly_ how Clint feels and wishes desperately that his friend never had to share this particular life experience with him. 

“You and Natasha? You ran into Bucky?”

The question is barely a whisper because Steve is afraid he says it too loud that he will wake up from the dream or be told he’s wrong or something else that might crush his spirit, but when Clint nods, Steve’s chest rises sharply. 

“He was at an old Hydra safe house, stocking up on ammunition. Natasha intervened, and I had her six. I couldn’t hear much of their conversation, but I heard enough. He left soon enough but not before giving Natasha the information on that flash drive,” Clint said, and Steve gripped the metal in his hand harder. “Natasha sorted through it, and it’s all there. It’s everything about the Winter Soldier: his dossier, missions, physiology, psych evaluations, everything.”

“Why would Bucky give you this,” Steve asks, more to himself than to Clint, but Clint answers anyways. 

“Natasha said that your friend was starting to break through the programming. She threw words around like “unstable” and “volatile” and “dangerous” -- and some other choice words -- but god knows I don’t have the talent for Russian like she does.”

Steve says nothing for a while, pocketing the flash drive for safekeeping, before dropping his shoulders. “I guess I should be thanking you. I'll look this over, see if I can’t predict his next moves,” Steve says, and even if he is the strategist of the team, he doesn’t feel totally confident that he can track down Bucky now when he really needs to. 

Clint shrugs. “You do what you need to, Rogers. I know how the game goes, but I think Sam is right.” Steve looks at Clint. “Natasha doesn’t know I heard this bit, but Bucky? I know he is remembering things...remembering you. He will come soon enough. You gotta’ trust that.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Steve cocks his head. “You all keep saying that. Doesn’t make any of you right.”

“Doesn’t make any of us wrong either.”

The two stay like that for a moment, staring at each other with their thoughts miles away before J.A.R.V.I.S. startles the two, enough so that Clint is pulling a knife and Steve’s fists are ready to pull a punch before the registers the telltale accent. 

“Sirs, I am afraid to inform you that Mr. Stark is growing suspicious of your whereabouts. I found it prudent to alert you before he came searching.”

Clint swears and turns on his heels, heading towards the kitchen as he mutters gruffly under his breath about self-absorbed mechanics with complexes. Sticking his hands into his pockets, Steve follows Clint and works a smile onto his face despite the hot thudding in his chest that could have brought tears to his eyes. 

But Steve hadn’t cried when he was born, and even after ninety-six years, he isn't going to start today. Fingering the flash drive in his pocket, he takes steady steps before turning the corner into the kitchen where he sees Pepper taking a sip of red wine and Bruce is watching Tony warily as he calls out for J.A.R.V.I.S. 

_For tonight_ , Steve thinks as he watches his new friends laugh and eat, _this will be enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! 
> 
> There it is. Let me know what you all think! Constructive criticism keeps my heart beating.


	3. Broken Circuitry and Decrypted Files

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here is the newest chapter. For anyone getting curious, Bucky's POV is coming next, so get hyped.
> 
> Also let me know how I am doing with this story. I am getting a bit nervous about how the alternating POVs are going or if I am getting the characters' voices right. Let me know what you think about the story so far if you have the time!

Tony Stark has been called lots of things during his life. 

_Genius_ \-- which is a total given because the height of his IQ score should really be considered the pinnacle achievement of the human race, but that is just his humble opinion. 

_Warmongering Profiteer_ \-- which Tony might have fought off with a half-assed argument at one point in his life years ago but now even thinking about that title makes his blood pressure skyrocket. 

_Heartless_ \-- and that is totally not true anymore, and with a fond smile, Tony remembers that Pepper is his proof to the contrary. 

But as he sits in his lab, marking up rejected schematics and dodging Dum-E’s attempts to stab him with a soldering iron, Tony knows that perhaps the most appropriate thing he could ever be called is an _idiot_. 

A giant, lip-flapping, brain-smacking idiot because Tony is kicking himself now for deleting all his files concerning his Iron Man suit that night after dealing with Killian.

But thankfully his schematics for the Mark 43 hadn’t been flushed down to any digital graveyard that not even J.AR.V.I.S. could rescue them from. 

“So, if the relay feedback towards the shoulder plating...”

A crash springs from behind him, and Tony has to force himself not to jump out of his skin. 

“Dum-E! Community College, just, what part of that do you not get? No, no, don’t give me _that_ look. Put the fire extinguisher down and come over here. And you better have the .3 inch tip for the iron in your claw before then.”

There is no response -- because Tony has only ever given J.A.R.V.I.S. the gift of speech, and he’s reminded of what a good decision that was each time his AI insults or saves his life. His other helpers, well, they aren't quite ready for words yet. 

The only thing Tony, however, is ready for right now is the feeing of having repulsers tucked into his palms and feet as he flies across the Manhattan skyline, a grin hidden behind his mask as people gasp and grab for their phones ( _because, really, browsing through the Iron Man instagram tag is one of his secret past-times_ ). But the schematics for the Mark 43 are complex, and even Tony will admit that they are a bit over his head now that he’s not got any of his other suits to reference to. 

Tony, though he thinks himself an idiot, has also been called a genius. 

So he will figure this out after a few nights without sleep and more coffee in his systems than his doctors would approve of -- and he almost feels bad for ignoring their directions after they spent all that time needling shrapnel out from under his aorta but that is neither here or there. 

It is nearly three in the morning, and when he asks J.A.R.V.I.S. what cup of espresso he is on, Tony can hear the condemnation in his AI’s tone. 

“You are currently at four, Sir. Might I suggest you limit your caffeine take for the day?”

Tony snorts. 

“Day has only started, buddy. I got a lot of work left so no can do. And I will know if you alert Pepper about this. I coded you into the world; I can write you out,” Tony mutters before bringing his hands back to the rubber-coated table in front of him. There is a half-built relay system buzzing with unchecked voltage in front of him, snarling at Tony every couple of seconds. 

Tony has dealt with far worse -- remembering Vanko and his electrified whips from Monaco is still enough to make Tony wince -- so he shoves on some gloves and gets to work. 

The room is silent other than his strangled cursing and Dum-E’s whirring wheels as he explores the lab until J.A.R.V.I.S. interrupts. 

“Sir, Captain Rogers is making his way towards the lab. Should I tell him you are busy?”

Tony stills before pulling away from his project, an eyebrow arched high against his forehead. “Uh, no. This has the potential to be interesting. Let him in but _only_ if he says please.”

This is why Tony isn’t even phased when Steve comes into the lab not even five minutes later, footsteps slowing because he has never really breached the sanctum that is Tony’s R&D candyland on the top floors of the Tower. Since temporarily moving in with his friend, Steve hasn’t done more than go on runs or seen anything beyond the walls of his room as he reads. 

It seems like a boring life, but Tony doesn’t comment. If he was ninety-six years old, he probably wouldn’t want to get out much either. 

Tugging the gloves off his hands, Tony turns around and notices Steve’s dazed look. “Nice to see you, Rogers. You finally taking a tour of the place, or did you just miss me?”

Steve’s lip twitches. “Neither.”

“Alright, well, _ouch_. It’s good to know when I’m unwanted. If that’s all then, I’ll just get back to my...whatever,” Tony says, gesturing towards the pile of circuitry and wires behind him, because Steve is still toddling on baby steps when it comes to advanced mechanics. 

Steve sighs, and at that, Tony does a double-take because _how_ did he not notice how tired Steve looks until now?

“Sorry, just. I need some help.”

And Tony’s eyes widen a slip. 

“Help?”

“Yes.”

“From _me_?”

“That’s why I’m here, Stark,” Steve answers dryly, nodding towards Tony in a way that shows how embarrassed he is to have to ask for help. 

And this is a goldmine of opportunities. Tony’s mind shoots into overdrive as he chews on his response, wanting to take a dig or make a quip that leaves Steve blushing and Tony slapping his knee with laughter. There are _so many_ possibilities that Tony doesn’t even know where to start, but before he can choose on what would probably become his most treasured witty retort, Steve is shoving something at Tony with a hopeful look. 

It’s a flash drive -- one that looks entirely too fancy and high-tech for Steve to be carrying. So Tony asks where Steve got his hands on it. 

“Clint gave it to me. It’s a gift from, well, Natasha and him.”

Tony lets out a low whistle. “A gift from Natasha? You sure it won’t bite you? Bite me? She’s kind of got this whole thing about me. I didn’t play well with others and that apparently put her off, which really, is _ironic_ coming from her.”

Steve just rolls his eyes. “I read your file. I can’t say she was wrong,” and Tony wants to rail against that but then Steve continues, “but that was years ago. You seem different now.”

Tony really doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he instead walks across the room to a computer array he’s got set-up and motions for Steve to follow. Once the flash drive is booted into the system, Tony brings up the files. Or he tries to. Some of the files are interestingly enough protected by a high-level encryption that make his fingers twitch towards the keyboard. 

“And that's why I need your help,” Steve admits, waving a hand towards the screen, and Tony understands. 

“You sure Natasha wanted you to see these files? These are some good encryptions; Whoever put them in place must not have wanted others snooping through these files.”

And Steve laughs. “It’s not like you to have a problem with snooping through things.”

Tony nods because _that is_ true. And, really, the whole team should have been grateful for his discovery of Phase II on the helicarrier when he did -- even if it did end with Bruce hulking out and Coulson’s death -- but Tony does his best not to think about that day. Or the days that followed. 

Because doing so is apparently not healthy and tends to spur acute panic attacks. 

Bringing up a screen on the monitor, Tony enters some code before J.A.R.V.I.S. takes over, running programs to decrypt the files. It shouldn’t take too long; The files are protected, but they don’t have anything on the layers of decryption that Tony plowed through to get at some of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s dirty secrets. 

Steve stays quiet throughout, eyes flickering across the monitor as if he’s trying to figure out what is happening beyond all the code and binary nonsense, so Tony grabs a snack off of the table -- because he’s learned to keep his labs stocked with food at all times-- and offers some to Steve.

“Blueberry?”

Steve shakes his head. “So maybe you’re not that different after all, Stark.”

And Tony feels the odd urge to laugh because he’s actually having a semi-civil conversation with a national icon -- who during crazier times -- had threatened to beat the ever-loving shit out of Tony.

(Which is fair because Tony did say some nasty things in turn -- the bottle zinger still impresses and nags at him to this day)

The times, however, are still _fucking_ crazy. Because S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone and Hydra is scattered -- just enough to keep them from playing but they’re still waiting on the field -- and Natasha’s anonymity is shot to hell now with how C-SPAN replays her smack-down on Capitol Hill daily. _Hell_ , Tony hadn't even been sure that they'd made it out of D.C. alive between having seen them on their knees with guns pressed to the back of their heads on the news to the whole helicarrier fiasco over the Potomac. It had taken a few well-placed phone calls for Tony to know that they were alright.

That’s not even counting the press shitstorm that Pepper has been guiding Tony through since the incident in Washington because, _no_ , he did not help Project Insight with the knowledge that it was going to try to wipe out a bunch of good people, himself included. And Tony knows J.A.R.V.I.S. is still reeling from having removed a sizable chunk of Stark files from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database before it was spilt onto the internet and trended worldwide on Twitter. 

Now, to top it off, Maria _fucking_ Hill is now the head of his human resources department which is _terrifying_.

The times are definitely still crazy -- whether aliens are attacking New York or not -- because people are _crazy_ and the world seems to gorge itself on such chaos. 

“Sir, all of the files have been successfully decrypted. Should I put them on-screen?”

Tony jerks at his AI’s voice but nods after a second. The monitor floods with files, and even Tony can’t help but be impressed by all of the information present on the screen. But he can hear Steve groan softly behind him. 

“Damn.”

And Tony does feel bad. Really, he does. Because he knows what the files are all about without even asking. There is only one thing -- well, person, more like it -- that Tony knows could make Steve desperate enough to ask for his help. And that person is James Buchanan Barnes.

Or Bucky.

Maybe the Winter Soldier on bad days.

Tony’s not really sure. 

Which is why Tony finds himself offering to help Steve sort through the files without even meaning to. He doesn’t take back the offer, because between the two of them, Tony _knows_ that he’s the best qualified to sort through all the information, records, data, pictures, and whatnot that will come spewing from these files. 

But Steve looks weary at the offer. 

“I appreciate it, Stark, but I can-”

“I know you can do it by yourself, Rogers. But I got nothing else to do tonight,” Tony lies -- decidedly ignoring the relay board across the room -- and hopes that Steve doesn’t catch onto him. Steve is Steve though, so of course he notices, but he lets Tony help him anyways. 

They sort through the information until the sun begins to crest over the sky -- and, even after all these years, Tony still takes pleasure in the view he has of the Manhattan skyline from his labs -- but then he is back to sifting through dossiers and personnel files. 

It’s just after six that Tony stops his mad run around the files because he sees two names on his tablet -- because he had gotten tired of standing in front of the computer with Steve breathing over his shoulder as they worked -- and feels like throwing up. 

_Target: Howard Stark_  
 _Status: Eliminated_  
 _Collateral: Maria Stark, Driver (unidentified)_  
 _Asset was pulled from cryo at approx. 0314 on..._

And Tony jerks to his feet because he _knew_. He had believed that his parents’ deaths weren’t an accident. When he was younger -- wearing a rumpled suit from the funeral and with a bottle of Vodka curled in his grip -- it was all could think about then. But there hadn’t never been enough evidence to pursue the hunch, and Tony soon rocketed into a life of self-indulgent stardom and booze that kept his mind occupied elsewhere.

(Except at night when Tony would have nightmares -- before Afghanistan and alien portals and Extremis -- about the way the car must have veered off the cliff, tires squealing into the pavement as they gripped onto the road before giving way. Or about how his father might have prayed before they hit the ground. But, usually, they would end with Tony hearing the way his mother must have _screamed_ as she stared down death through the cracked windshield of the car)

Tony is pacing in his lab now -- those nightmares from years ago flooding his mind and making his fist clench -- and Steve is there in front of Tony, hands hovering in the air as if he wants to restrain him. 

“Stark, stop. What’s wrong? Did you find something?”

Tony doesn’t stop because his mind is racing and his heart is about to explode and-

“ _Tony!_ ”

He shuts his eyes, breathing thickly through his nose to calm himself. “Did you know?”

Steve stops. “Know what?”

Tony takes a step forward, hands curling at his side.

“Did you know that your friend -- the _goddamn_ Winter Soldier -- killed my parents?”

And then Steve hesitates which is more than enough of an answer for Tony. 

“I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe you, Rogers.”

“I didn’t know for sure. I had heard some things during D.C. that made me guess, but I wasn’t sure. I only knew it had been Hydra-”

“Well, _of course_ it was Hydra! Who else would it have been?”

“You need to calm down.”

“You’re not my mother, Rogers, because she’s _dead_ and your best _fucking_ friend is the one who killed her!”

“That’s not fair, Tony-”

“ _Stop calling me that!_ It’s Stark to you,” Tony all but shouts, and Steve reels back like he’s been slapped. 

It’s there first fight since the helicarrier. And Tony’s a raw nerve of hurt right now but he’s not about to act like the world’s biggest dick in his grief. So he loosens himself and takes a step back, sitting down in his chair before doubling-over, one hand rubbing at his face. 

Steve stands -- nearly at attention because his body is coiled tightly with something Tony doesn’t care to investigate -- and looks at Tony steadily. 

“This is a mess.”

And Steve nods. “It is.”

Tony sighs and leans himself back until his shoulders hit the chair. “I just...sorry. You can call me whatever you want, Rogers. Far worse people I didn't even like have done as much in past.”

Steve doesn’t respond, and the minutes pass without either saying a word. Tony is processing, compartmentalizing information and emotions quicker than even J.A.R.V.I.S. could, because this whole thing isn’t all that surprising. And Tony really shouldn’t have been caught so off-guard by seeing the proof laid out in front of him. 

However, that doesn’t stop the stinging behind his eyes or break the lump in his throat. 

It takes a little more time for Tony to work words through his lips, bring himself to his shaky feet. 

“You ready to get back to work?”

Steve looks at him. “Tony, you can talk about it if you want.”

But Tony just shakes his head because the only people he wants to talk this over with are either Pepper Potts or Jack Daniels, but neither of them are available right now. He slides his tablet back into his lap, flicking through data as if there wasn't a super soldier eyeing him from a few feet away, and Tony relaxes once Steve returns to his work at the computer. 

The files he's sifting through now are useless: they’re just collections of coordinates and chemical formulas and money transactions that mean _fuck all_ for Steve’s efforts to find his friend. 

A friend, Tony remembers, who used to also be friends with his father. And that makes Tony’s gut tighten because his father -- no matter his drinking or neglect or shit parenting skills -- being killed by his friend hits too close to Tony because he remembers how he felt when Obadiah had left Tony gasping on the floor one night, arc reactor caught between his traitorous fingers, and wanted him to die. 

He almost feels worse for Bucky because he will have to live with that memory once -- not if -- Steve brings him back. When looked at from afar, mapping out the story of his life, Bucky has played both a hero and villain, but Tony can see what he really is: a victim of circumstance. 

(Which means that Bucky would fit in _great_ with the rest of the team because all the Avengers, in their own way, are victims of circumstance. Whether it’s because of terrorists in Afghanistan or the KGB or super serums, each member knows what it feels like to have one moment from their past now rippling through their future)

So Tony will cope with his anger and grief in whatever ways he can -- and Pepper, he knows, will spearhead this with concerned focus -- because he can’t hold the Winter Soldier’s actions against Bucky because they are not the one and the same. 

Bucky is a person, but the Winter Soldier is little more than a leveled gun pointed to the heads of whomever Hydra might disagree with. And Bucky never really got to have a say in to whether or not to pull the trigger was pulled. 

However, Tony has to finish these files before getting J.A.R.V.I.S. to schedule an appointment with his therapist since Bruce was _obviously_ not that kind of doctor, and so he continues flicking through the files with ease.

And, finally, he finds something. 

He does some digging -- more than Steve ever would have thought to do even if he knew how -- once he finds that there are some discrepancies with money withdraws and transfers in the bank accounts of a handful of Hydra agents. 

Agents -- who Tony then cross-references against Interpol and CIA and FBI and even S.H.I.E.L.D. -- who are dead and most _definitely_ not making trips to visit their local ATM. 

It really just starts as a hunch until he Tony begins blocking together the evidence. He keeps digging, referencing coordinates of missions that James has gone rogue on and comparing those to real-estate websites across the internet before finding a match. 

Because he’s about eighty-eight percent positive that James -- starting to shed the skin of the Winter Soldier and looking for any piece of his old self -- has returned to Brooklyn on the stolen money of Hydra agents he’s killed. And, if Tony is right, then he’s currently subleasing an apartment about six blocks away from where Steve and he used to shack up in the forties. 

When Tony brings this information to Steve, he’s more than a little smug with his smooth voice.

“...what I got. You’re welcome, you know. Thank me later, _really_ , it is fine; I can wait. But I expect something big because I _do_ charge interest and all for stuff like this. Maybe make me a cake -- no, scratch that. Actually, why don't you just let me borrow that shield of yours, and we'll call it even. Can’t promise I won’t repaint it, but _hey_. Like I said. You owe me.”

Steve doesn’t respond -- not that Tony had expected him too -- because he is memorizing the address and apartment floor-plans that Tony managed to fish out as well. 

Tony rocks on his feet, noting Steve’s furrowing brow, and knocks his hip against the table. Steve finally looks up. 

“Actually, I think I just figured out what you can do for me.”

Steve has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. 

“And what’s that?”

Pointing at his tablet in Steve’s hand, he lets out a long breath. “I want you to wait until tomorrow to go after him.”

“Tony, I can’t do that. He could be gone by tomorrow, and-”

But Tony just shakes his head. “You know he’s not going to split so suddenly. He’s in Brooklyn for a reason, and the transactions show that he’s been there for a couple weeks now. You can wait until tomorrow.”

“You don’t honestly expect me to-”

“I don’t expect you to do anything anymore, Rogers. You either exceed my expectations or fall way short of them, so it’s better just to sit back and watch what happens.”

Steve quiets at that, and Tony watches the muscles of his jaw clench likes his mulling over what to say next. And what he does say next _only_ proves Tony’s earlier point about expectations because Tony didn't actually think Steve would agree to wait a day before heading over to Bucky’s apartment. 

“Just _one_ day, Tony. I could use some sleep. Getting geared up will take some time too,” Steve rambles, trying to convince himself more than he is Tony about his decision. 

Tony nods and takes a step back from the table, eyeing his relay switch across the room because _dammit_ , that thing is getting finished before he eats breakfast. 

“Good to see you’re still a spangled man with a plan, Rogers. I was getting worried there. Besides, Thor is coming over for dinner later with his scientist girl, and I’m really thinking we should maybe thank him for saving the world and all. That whole physics shtick in England? What a drag. Really glad that he kept those pissed-off Legolas wannabes from enslaving the planet though. Also, Bruce. Bruce said he would come eat with us again.”

And Tony keeps rambling until Steve’s voice cuts through. 

“Thanks.”

Tony shrugs.

“It’s no problem.”

“Whatever you say, Tony. Now get some sleep. You’ve mothered me enough for today. Turnabout is fair play.”

And Tony laughs because Steve is _not_ his mother and he is _not_ Steve’s. Hell, he hopes he is not anyone’s parent -- which is really subject because he did schmooze around town before Pepper had set him straight. The closest he comes these days to being a father is with Harley -- the damn brat -- when he calls or comes up to visit, going on and on about how the two of them are still connected, and Tony can’t help but agree. 

“I’d be a damn good mother to you, Rogers. And you know it,” Tony jokes as he makes his way to his forgotten project, reaching for his gloves because getting electrocuted is _not_ how he wants to start the day off.

Steve just laughs, and Tony can hear his footsteps heading for the door. “I’m sure you would be, Tony. But I think I’d rather just keep you as a friend.” 

And then Steve is gone, leaving Tony laughing loudly over a pile of sparking circuits, because he’s apparently now official friends with Captain America and Tony _really, really_ isn't sure how to respond to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! Hope it was alright! Please let me know in the comments below if you have any thoughts/constructive criticisms/random stories to tell me.


	4. Teeter-Totters and Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last installment of this story. But hurrah! It is a series!
> 
> The next series will explore what happens once Bucky and Steve reunite. It will focus much more heavily on the Avengers -- and yes! -- there will be a villain beyond Hydra.
> 
> I want to know what you all think about this ending, so let me know in the comments below if you can! It would make me as happy as Steve finding Bucky!

His apartment is across the street from a park. 

Children squeal when they run around the mulched playground, hands grabbing at one another as they tear towards swings and slides. The parents are quieter as they sit on benches with sunglasses perched on their noses with cell phones or books in hand. No doubt, though, they are watching out from under the tinted glass for their kids, ready to intervene when a scraped knee brings their fun day out to an end. 

The noise that comes from the park is loud, and when he’d settled into the apartment two months ago, it had set Bucky’s teeth on edge. 

(Because he is Bucky now -- or so he likes to think he is. The edges between _who he is_ and _who he was made into_ blur more often than he cares to admit. That’s why when he finds himself gasping for air in the middle of the night, clawing at dank mattress beneath him, he has to repeat _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_ like a prayer unto himself. It’s the only reason that he’s made it this far after D.C.)

Today, the noise of the park and the busy street outside and of his neighbor’s TV is as noisy as ever, but it now filters in as white noise to Bucky’s senses. Those sounds were noted and filed as unimportant after days of living in his barebones apartment. Though he doesn’t remember why, it comes naturally to Bucky how to compartmentalize information and excuse it after it becomes useless. Things like children’s laughter and slowly revving engines don’t spur anything in Bucky’s body that would force him to move, to fight, to kill.

He thinks sometimes -- through foggy memories of an older Brooklyn and Coney Island cotton candy -- that his old self was the first bit of useless information taken from him decades ago. 

Bucky is in the apartment, kneeling on the floor, looking at a wall smattered with papers and news clippings when a faint rattle from outside makes his head snap to the side. 

He knows the place’s vulnerabilities implicitly. The sightline through the windows is obscured -- though Bucky knows how possible it is for a trained sniper to get in a shot around plastered walls -- and all the entrances points are rigged to a surveillance system monitored in the living room. One point of entrance is the fire escape that teeters just outside of the kitchen window, and when he hears the rattle again, Bucky knows that it isn’t the kids from upstairs playing on the damned thing again. 

Those are footsteps he is hearing -- light, measured, and precise -- so Bucky rolls to his feet and pads down the hallway to the kitchen, grabbing an extra round for his pistol tucked into the waist of his sweatpants. 

The rattling stops, but Bucky keeps moving through the apartment, clearing corners with his gun now gripped between his hands. He’s about to pass the living room when his eye catches the low-lit monitor relaying his security feed, and Bucky stops. 

There is a crouched figure settled on the fire escape floor before his, and Bucky clenches his jaws because he _knows_ that body despite the grainy footage and colorless picture displayed on the monitor. 

(Three weeks after D.C., Bucky had fallen asleep in an old Hydra safehouse -- body stocked with ammunition as he waited for recursive orders from an agency that failed to retrieve their favorite pet -- and then woke up an hour later with the target, Captain America, cluttering his thoughts. It was the first vivid memory he would have of the national icon -- the man who had also been Bucky’s best friend in a different time -- and Bucky recalls the faded thoughts of wondering _what the hell is going on?_ to _I thought you were smaller_. After that night, Bucky had gone to the Smithsonian for an exhibit filled with pictures of Steve and found that the serum-induced body he studied made him tight with anger. It was only when Bucky had seen the pictures of Steve, sickly and small from before the way, that he felt a tug at his chest. He would later recognize that feeling as nostalgia.)

Bucky knows those wide-set shoulders and muscular thighs that are dipped in their crouch, but most importantly, he recognizes the cropped hair and jawline. 

He grips his gun tighter before heading into the living room. Walking up to the surveillance station, he turns it off after overriding the system and waits until he hears the click of the kitchen window unlocking. 

This, Bucky knows, was going to happen sooner or later. Having been settled in Brooklyn for as long as he has, he is surprised that this visit hasn’t happened already. Bucky has kept himself hidden save for his self-assigned missions of infiltrating Hydra bases to gather more information, but even he understands the risk that comes with him living back in his old city from his past. 

When he hears the window tug open from down the hall, Bucky takes a calming breath to keep his trigger finger from pulling. The gun’s cool weight is pressed against his flesh-and-blood palm, and Bucky moves so he is standing in the middle of the living room -- taking in exits, counting through takedown maneuvers, checking through accessible ammunition.

There is a shadow hanging in the hallway as Steve creeps through the apartment, and Bucky almost laughs at Steve’s covert affair that failed before it even began. His memories of Steve’s loud presence is only reaffirmed now because Steve seems to be many things to many people but a spy he is not. 

Steve’s foot comes into view shortly before his head peeks into the doorway, and once Bucky’s stare meets Steve’s wide eyes, he raises his gun. 

Steve freezes at the sight of Bucky’s gun leveled at his head -- a perfect shot to _even_ kill a super soldier -- and Bucky sees a strategy forming in Steve’s mind for dealing with this. 

He stares at Steve. “Why are you here?”

“Bucky, you know me, alright? Just listen to-”

His grip tightens on the gun. “Answer the question.”

Steve presses his lips together, and something tickles Bucky’s mind like he’s seen this look before on Steve’s face, but he keeps the gun trained at the target on Steve’s forehead. 

A friend is what Steve was to Bucky -- or so he said -- but Bucky knows that Captain America could kill him so he covers himself, and for once, pushes Steve into a corner with the promise of a soviet slug between his eyes. 

“I'm just here to talk, Bucky.”

The name grates on Bucky’s nerve -- even if that is what he calls himself -- but he is the only one that gets to use that name. That name is all he has along with the handful of frazzled dreams and vivid memories that leave him retching, and Bucky will be damned if those sacred things get away from him. 

But the way Steve says the name keeps Bucky’s mouth shut because there is a tone in that voice that Bucky is now just learning to decipher after months of observing people and sorting through feelings that left his chest tight. With a spark of recognition -- because Bucky learns more these days with a bang than a whimper -- he identifies the tone as one he’s heard from couples on the street or families in the park.

It is concern. 

And that makes Bucky’s finger twitch towards the trigger because love isn’t something the Red Room let him keep. Months or years or _goddamn centuries_ could pass by again before Bucky thinks he’ll ever get that notion back, but seeing it displayed so openly towards him makes him feel threatened. 

Threats are meant to be eliminated. It’s what he's been trained to do best, but he doesn’t let a bullet go.

Instead, Bucky lowers the gun. “You are not good at this.”

Steve takes a careful step into the doorway, hands open to his sides to show he’s unarmed -- but really -- Steve’s body has proved to be a deadlier weapon than most firearms so the gesture means little. 

“Good at what?”

Bucky chooses not to answer; he rather Steve figure it out on his own. He waves a hand towards the couch without taking his eyes off the man in front of him. 

“Sit down.”

Steve frowns. “Bucky, wh-”

“ _Sit down_.”

So he does, and Bucky keeps standing to keep an upper hand on the situation. Steve sees this judging by his own tensed body, but Bucky will not let this visit go any other way than how he wants it too.

It takes a moment for him to slide his gun back underneath his shirt, and Steve looks surprised. “You trust me enough for that,” he asks as he nods towards Bucky’s waist.

Bucky stares. “No.”

And Steve nods like he had been expecting the answer. Bucky just stands across from him, noting the good ten feet that separate them from each other, and waits for Steve to talk. Steve keeps Bucky’s stare as if he’s staring at a jigsaw puzzle that’s missing just enough pieces to prevent a picture from falling into place. 

After a moment, his lips part. “Why did you come to Brooklyn?”

“Easy base of operation. No one notices when I come in or out,” Bucky answers immediately, and Steve frowns. “However, it’s said that this is where I lived before everything happened. Maybe that brought me back to the city.”

Steve’s eyebrows are raised high. “Bucky, _wait_. How much do you remember now?”

Bucky shrugs because he’s honestly not sure. He’s got no frame of reference for what all he should have stored in that memory of his, but every time he thinks he’s filled in enough holes of his past, new and painful memories will present themselves as such. 

Steve. The docks. Connie. Steve. Flying cars. Playing solitaire. Apple pie. Steve. A funeral. Steve. The war. _Steve_. Blood. _Steve_. A train. _Steve_. 

Steve is the only constant, and somewhere in his gut, that makes Bucky the most uncomfortable of all. 

Bucky lets out a low breath, ignoring the light now relit in Steve’s eyes. “I get snatches here and there, enough to know how I ended back on this street after seventy years,” he breaths before continuing, “And enough to know who you were to me.”

Steve starts like he wants to say something but stops himself before any words spill from his lips. Bucky waits -- and part of him is glad that Steve has learned to think before he speaks because he remembers too many scrappy fights started by Steve’s loud mouth -- until Steve talks.

“Bucky, that’s great. I just didn’t expect this. I’d figured you would-”

“I can do this on my own.”

Steve jerks, and Bucky reminds himself to inflict his voice so he doesn’t sound so _fucking_ angry all the time. He hadn’t meant his words to have such bite, but these days, it’s all he can do to even get them out. 

“I know you can, but you don’t have to. That’s why I came here.”

Bucky, for the first time in years, feels an honest to god smile tug at his chapped lips. “I thought you just came to talk.”

Floundering, Steve leans forward, and Bucky takes a step back instinctively. Steve comes to a stop at that. 

He doesn’t move for a moment, and Bucky lets his hand pull away from his waist. 

“I spent months looking for you.”

Bucky is interested by the change of subject, but he just nods. He had kept tabs on Steve and his friend, Sam, as they traveled the country on leads by a false trail Bucky had laid himself. They wound up at Hydra bases halfway across the midwest while he was infiltrating his real target, leaving behind nothing but slit throats and rubble in his wake. 

Steve closes his eyes -- and Bucky feels irritated at the sight because things might be going okay so far but he is _still_ an assassin who could easily kill Steve with his left hand alone. 

“Jesus, I spent months and got nowhere. I had _nothing_ , Bucky, and then I find that you’d been holed up here the whole time? I just want to help you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

(Bucky remembers Steve’s ma. His own parents were too busy juggling him and his sisters around to pay much attention, but Sarah Rogers -- he recalls -- looked at him in every way that she looked at Steve. Money on the block was tight, but she would set out a plate for him at dinner if he stuck around with her thin wrists and wispy blonde hair. He remembers when she was dying -- years later when he was older and understood what it meant to die -- but she just kissed him on the cheek and held onto his elbows. She had told him to take care of Steve, to take care of _himself_. And so that’s what he had done.)

Thinking back on that memory, Bucky tilts his head back. “I remembered that much. You never liked being useless back then.” 

Steve pauses, debating on something by the way he worries at his lip, before he’s standing up slowly. Bucky tenses but forces himself to keep his ground, ducking his shoulders in case he needs to take Steve out at the knees if this conversation gets away from him. 

Standing straight with his shoulders wider than Bucky remembers them being, Steve looks every inch of the perfect soldier that Bucky had been assigned to eliminate not so long ago. But as they stand in front of one another, even with every inch of his training screaming for Bucky to either engage or escape, he puts the brakes on that train of thought because Bucky _somehow_ knows that Steve isn’t going to hurt him. 

He would let Bucky kill him before letting that happen. He’s proven as such before. 

Steve watches Bucky with an open expression -- again reminding Bucky of the other man’s naive trust in things untested -- before bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“Are you going to let me then? Help you, that is.”

And there it is. 

Bucky knew from the moment he saw Steve on the monitor that this was the question their time would end on. He knew this because Steve -- from all he’s read and remembered -- is a man that reaches out when everybody else calls it in. He’ll reach farther than safe, muscles stretched and fingers grasping at air, until he grabs hold of whoever he’s chasing after. 

In this case, that person is Bucky. 

And so Bucky’s breath hitches softly before he looks away from Steve because he can’t give him this answer face-to-face. 

“Not right now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Steve’s face fall under shadows that threaten to steal him away. Bucky’s heart thuds in his chest -- adrenaline, he recognizes -- because he doesn’t know what Steve is going to do with that answer. 

His left hand whirrs as it calibrates, reacting to Bucky’s racing pulse, because a fight it what this whole situation might come down to if Steve doesn’t for once in his _entire fucking life_ take a hint and quit while he can. 

Steve’s voice is nothing more than air when he finally speaks. 

“Bucky, please-”

“Steve.”

Bucky’s voice is hard, but at the sound of his name, Steve shuts up. The word feels unfamiliar on Bucky’s tongue despite him repeating it to himself at night as he tries so hard to think through the onslaught of memories that just don’t make sense. It’s the first time that he’s said it without stumbling.

Steve is still quiet, reeling from the address, and Bucky takes that chance to continue while he’s still able to talk.

“It’s not that I don’t want your help. Just, I can’t take it right now. There are still things I got to figure out by myself first.”

“It’s been months,” Steve argues with a sharp edge to his tone, and Bucky wants to laugh. 

“What’s a few months compared to decades of being somebody else’s _goddamn_ puppet with a gun?”

The words fly into the space between them before Bucky can reel them back, and Steve looks stunned. 

Bucky almost regrets his words, but they are the truth -- and as he’s promised himself -- the truth will always come first for him. Whether it’s the truth in his past or his sins or his identity, it doesn’t matter. Knowing what’s real and what’s not is something that Bucky still struggles with, but truth can keep him grounded. 

Even if it makes Steve’s face turn white. 

“Bucky,” Steve calls, and the sound of his name makes his stomach tighten. 

He turns his back to Steve which is so fucking stupid of him that he hopes Steve takes the chance and kills him right then before clenching his fists because he _cannot_ afford to lose it now after he’s done this well for so long. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky mutters to himself, but Steve hears him from across the room.

“Do what?”

“ _That_ ,” Bucky stresses, gesturing towards Steve with his hand jerking.

“I don’t understand, Bucky. God, I am trying. Just help me understand.”

“Help you? Help _you_ understand? What fucking good will you do for me if you don't even understand what's going on?”

Steve’s face flushes red. “Bucky, calm down-”

And then Bucky is turning around, eyes wild and his hair comes undone from the tie that had been keeping it up. He feels his body thrum with energy that begs to be released, and so he lets it fly out in his words. 

“ _Fuck!_ Steve, god, you don’t get it. You don’t get to understand this because how could you? You were frozen for seventy years, but me? Whoever the fuck I am right now is someone who has killed people. I killed people and listened to them beg for their lives and still put a bullet through their skill. Can you get that? Is that _something_ you understand?”

Bucky strains for air as he finishes, and his chest feels like it is on fire. He expects Steve to snap -- to throw an elbow into his gut which Bucky would _love_ because then he could grip Steve’s throat and _squeeze_ \-- but Steve does nothing. 

And that is almost worse. 

Snarling, Bucky takes a step forward, hoping to put Steve on the offensive.

“I could kill you. I could snap your neck and carve your goddamn heart out, Steve. It’s nothing I’ve not done before. You keep pushing me, and one of these days? I will snap and fucking do it.”

Steve stares. Then Bucky is moving towards him, a fist coming up because this conversation is _over_ and Bucky wants Steve _gone_. But then Steve opens his mouth without even bother to lift a hand to block the incoming throw. 

“You wouldn’t.”

Bucky stops inches from Steve’s chest and spits. “What?”

“You wouldn’t kill me, Bucky. I know you. You’re my friend.”

Bucky recognizes the words from the day on the helicarrier, and his head spins. He stumbles backwards, but then Steve’s hand is on his shoulder. 

“You said this to me once. I said it back to you not too long ago, but it’s worth repeating, Bucky. I’m with you until the end of the line. I’m not going to let you run me away like this,” Steve says, and Bucky stills. 

He remembers saying that to Steve. He remembers saying it a lot to him actually between Brooklyn and the trenches and at bars with the rest of the commandos. Maybe that was the line that triggered his memories after D.C. because his dreams revolve around it. Their line kept Steve and Bucky tangled into one another as their lives had gone by up until now, and even still, their line kept going even when they had lost each other. 

It’s that line which will keep Steve watching his back for the rest of his life, Bucky knows. No matter how far or hard he runs, wherever Bucky finds himself, Steve will be just a few steps behind from now on. 

If he’s honest, past his guilt and shame and liquid-hot anger that circulates in his veins, Bucky finds that such a future isn’t entirely unwelcome. It would make things easier. He could work to get his life in order -- whatever life that turns out to be -- and work his way back to trusting people. 

It’s tempting really. 

But Bucky knows that the line isn’t following a path he’s ready to follow right now. The line will lead him back to Steve soon enough once he’s finished getting to know himself. His life has been so full of Steve that Bucky needs to remember who he was like before the two of them became so tangled up in each other’s lives that needling them apart became impossible. 

So Bucky steps back from Steve’s grip and ignores the look Steve is giving him. “I know you are. I just need to finish figuring out who I am when I’m not with you, Steve. I _need_ to do this on my own terms.”

Steve’s eyes widen as if he’s heard that before, and Bucky squares his shoulders.

“I need to finish what I’m doing here. There are pieces of myself coming back, and I want to put them back together myself. I need to prove to myself that I can. I know you can’t understand, but-”

“I do.”

Bucky stops and looks at Steve with his head tilted just so. 

Steve looks embarrassed by his outburst before finishing. “I just, um, do know what that feels like. When I woke up from the ice, it wasn’t just the world that had changed. There were things about myself that I had to sort through too.”

And Bucky nods because that makes sense. Steve can understand that part of his struggle -- something he might even talk about with Steve one day once he’s better -- and Bucky nods.

“I remember enough about you, Steve, to know that walking away right now isn’t what you want. I just need you to give me some more time,” Bucky finishes. 

Steve lets out a long breath, and though he tries to hide it by biting at his lip, Bucky can see them quivering and feels his chest deflate. But he won’t give in on this -- for his sake alone, he _can’t_ \-- so he keeps his stare steady and pointed against Steve’s glassy eyes. 

It takes a moment, but then Steve’s face changes and looks lighter. 

“I’ve waited seventy years, Bucky; I think I can wait a little bit longer.”

Bucky laughs, and Steve looks so surprised that Bucky laughs even harder -- arms tight against his stomach as he feels the unfamiliar stretching tug at his lips. He can hear Steve laughing as well, and it feels _so right_ for some reason that Bucky doesn’t even try to stop until minutes have passed between them. 

Righting himself, Bucky watches as Steve wipes at his eyes with a gruff laugh, and Bucky knows those tears can’t be just from laughing. So he steps forward to catch Steve’s eye. 

When Steve looks up at him, Bucky does his best to relax and bring out the man who he’s seen in his dreams from before the war -- the man that he hopes to uncover under what’s left of the programming he’s been chipping away at. 

“You know, you’ve always been such a punk, Steve.”

And Steve looks like he wants to say a million things like _I know_ or _I’ll do my best to keep S.H.I.E.L.D. off your back_ and even _I’ve missed you_. 

There are so many things that he could say, but Steve just meets Bucky halfway and takes a risk. Slugging an arm slowly around Bucky’s neck, he tugs him into a loose grip.

“Can say the same for you too, jerk.”

He pulls back almost as soon as he came in, but Bucky’s proud that he hadn’t flinched or reached for his pocketed knives. It’s a start, he thinks, and that makes him feel better. 

Bucky stays where he is, and Steve is the first one to move away by taking a step to the side. Tracing Steve’s path, Bucky realizes that Steve is edging back towards the kitchen where he came from, and Bucky lets out a tired breath. 

It’s easier for neither of them to speak right now. Bucky thinks it’s probably for the best, but as Steve reaches the doorway, he stops with a hand gripping so tightly against the wood that cracks begin webbing through the frame . He doesn’t look over his shoulder when he calls out to Bucky, but Bucky thinks that he might have been crying from the break in his voice. 

“Take care of yourself, alright? You know where I’ll be when you’re ready.”

Steve waits, and Bucky -- just this once -- answers him even when he feels that it’s unnecessary.

“I’ll keep in touch.”

At that, Steve takes several small steps forward until he’s around the corner. Bucky listens as Steve’s footsteps speed up, and then with a click from his window and a muffled thud against the gravel alley out back, he knows that Steve is gone. He rolls his shoulders before moving to turn back on his surveillance to find that there is no sight of Captain America anywhere around the building. 

It’s strange for a moment. Bucky should head back to the bedroom and the wall where he’s been working to fill in the gaps of his life, but he finds that the air in his apartment is too heavy for him to even think. 

He pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, and heads out the front door before even deciding on a location. He’s not been many places recently that weren’t decided upon days in advanced -- whether for a mission or groceries down the block -- but he feels easy as he steps out onto the street in front of his building. 

Bucky scans the street and finds no sign of Steve -- not that he’d expected to -- and turns right on a whim. He keeps his head down as he goes, still cautious of street cameras and cell phones that might trigger facial recognition on any number of federal watch lists.

The walk is no more than a routine as his feet hit the pavement, sidestepping strangers on the sidewalk as he moves against the flow of traffic. His head is buzzing with loose thoughts that don’t make any sense, but Bucky doesn’t get the chance to sort through them because a new noise catches his ears. He stiffens, head turning across the street to the park where he can clearly see two boys swinging high on teeter-totters.

Neither look older than six, but their voices speak louder than their ages. They are laughing -- loud and untamed and wholly out of joy -- and Bucky hears this noise like it’s the first time he’s ever heard it before. 

(It’s not because -- long, long ago -- Steve and he were those two boys over at St. Mary’s playground where the wooden monkey bars would give them splinters and they’d rock back-and-forth on wooden swings until they couldn’t walk straight. They had once laughed and played and talked and lived in that playground as day turned to night, but it’s not a memory that Bucky can recall yet. It’s only a matter of time though.)

As Bucky stands there, listening to the children and feeling the buzz between his ears dull, he blinks past the people passing him by on the street like they aren’t potential sleeper agents or ready to pull a gun or hurt him like he’s been hurt before. 

He thinks about the past, and then just as quickly, he’s thinking about his future. And, with enough effort, he tries to ignore the unsavory bits in-between. 

This, Bucky realizes, is progress.

And as he walks away, laughter still ringing in his ear, Bucky can’t help but feel that each step is leading him closer to the person he’s been looking for this whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow and fangirl with me on [tumblr](http://brooklynboystosupersoldiers.tumblr.com) because I love you all.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, settings, plot lines, concepts, or terminology as created, used, and owned by Marvel Entertainment, LLC ®. This is a work of fanfiction.


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